A blade snaps and clatters to the ground-
That clings to the sand.
The crowd roars.
Sweat trickles down my neck,
doing nothing to cool me down from the stinging sun.
A soft prickle of pain bites my chin-
I was hit with the hilt a moment before.
The lifeless bag of flesh hangs at the end of my blade.
I snap my blade away,
and someone shouts.
My hand is held up to the gods.
I don’t get to in lounge in my victory,
I’m already pushed away for the next match.
My feet scuffling the dirt.
A clanking carriage takes the body away.
Ready for the next show.
Soon there will be a day,
my own sword will break,
then I’ll mark the sand with my blood.